


sweet dreams (are made of this)

by antigvne



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/F, also this is so soft, i love my bi daughter lucy and my lesbian daughter emma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-04-30 10:51:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14495322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antigvne/pseuds/antigvne
Summary: Okay, so she thinks about her sworn enemy when she fucks herself. She can keep that little secret to herself, thank you very much, and it will certainly not affect her work.Until it does.(or, Emma Whitmore has a problem. Lucy Preston has the solution.)





	sweet dreams (are made of this)

**Author's Note:**

> takes place sometime between 2x05 and 2x07

_ Emma lets out a contented sigh, head falling back on her pillow. A whimper forms in her throat as the flurry of mouth and fingers between her legs moves just the slightest bit more insistently.  _

 

_ She tangles her fingers in long, silky hair, urging her partner on, and she moans lowly at the feel of their dark chuckle against her skin.  _

 

_ “You're such a tease.” Emma hums, releasing a shaky breath when soft kisses are peppered along her inner thigh.  _

 

_ “But you're so fun to tease.” A familiar laugh comes from between her thighs, and Emma's eyes flick open in surprise. _

 

_ And there, peering up at her, eyes dark and hair mussed, is  _ Lucy Preston _ , a playful smirk curling around her lips. _

 

_ Before she can respond, Lucy's fingers and mouth are working even harder, causing Emma to let out a strangled moan, hips bucking sharply upwards and-- _

 

* * *

 

Emma Whitmore jerks awake, almost falling out of her standardized, cramped Rittenhouse bed. Her alarm blares in the background-- 4:30am. She runs a tired hand through her hair with a sigh, before falling back into bed.

 

What the  _ fuck  _ was that, exactly?

 

God knows why she's having sex dreams about the enemy. And not just  _ any  _ enemy, but the prodigal daughter, little miss princess herself. It's  _ ridiculously  _ inappropriate, but even now, she's acutely aware of the heat still pooling between her thighs.

 

She runs five miles that morning. The inky black sky gives way to a kaleidoscope of pinks and oranges. The early mist clinging to the ground evaporates quickly, promising a hot day ahead. 

 

She runs until her lungs burn and her legs ache, and when she hops into her ice cold shower right afterwards, she’s almost rid the imagined feeling of Lucy's mouth on her skin from her mind. 

 

_ Almost.  _

 

* * *

Now, she can dismiss one sex dream as a blip. A coincidence. However,  _ more  _ than one--

 

Honestly, it's getting ridiculous. She's hardly getting any decent sleep, with each dream more intense than the last. She always wakes with a start, covered in a cold sweat, flushed and  _ aching _ . 

 

At first, she ignores it. She goes for her runs, takes her cold showers. But soon, it's not enough. She can feel herself itching in desperation. She's distracted during meetings, she snaps at her colleagues. It's only when she accidentally dislocates another agent's shoulder during sparring practice that she fully realizes the extent of her pent up frustration. 

 

Alison is blonde, easy going, and works on the engineering side of Rittenhouse. In many ways, she is the complete opposite of Lucy Preston, which is exactly why Emma invites her out for drinks. 

 

Alison is beautiful, of course, and wonderfully eager, but fucking her doesn't give the satisfaction that Emma thought it would. Because even in bed with Alison, she has the stop herself from moaning Lucy's name when she comes. 

 

In short, Emma Whitmore is fucked. And not in the way she wishes she was. 

* * *

_ “You okay?” Lucy presses a hard kiss just below her ear as Emma pulls experimentally on her restraints. _

 

_ She nods, swallows hard and arches her neck, silently begging Lucy to continue. The brunette simply laughs, sitting up fully. Emma groans in disappointment, and Lucy smiles, grinding her hips down slowly on hers. _

 

_ “You're so beautiful like this, you know.” Lucy whispers _ ,  _ hands running along Emma's sides. “I mean, you're always beautiful. But here, like  _ this…”

 

_ “Please,” She begs lowly, ropes burning her wrists as she tugs again, desperate to just  _ touch  _ Lucy.  _

 

_ “I could make you watch.” Lucy murmurs, pupils wide and dark. “That would be torture for you, wouldn't it?”  _

 

_ To emphasize her point, she palms her own breast slowly, her other hand skirting down her stomach, between her legs.  _

 

_ Emma bites down hard on her bottom lip to keep from moaning, arousal pooling low in her stomach as she watches Lucy's eyes flutter close, the brunette whimpering under her own touch.  _

 

_ “Emma, _ ” _ Lucy gasps her name, and Emma thinks she could orgasm from the sight of Lucy fucking herself alone. _

 

* * *

Emma bolts up in bed, blinking away the dream. She can feel the heat shooting up her veins, the uncomfortable pressure in her lower stomach nearly unbearable. She's consciously aware of the wet, throbbing ache between her thighs. 

 

She groans into her pillow, shifts restlessly in bed. She knows no cold shower is going to remedy the arousal burning in her. 

 

_ Just this once _ , she silently promises herself, fingers slowly drifting down the flat plane of her abdomen, pushing past the waistband of her shorts and skimpy underwear. 

 

Emma flushes as she finds herself wetter than she could have ever thought, and it doesn't take long for her to orgasm to the thought of Lucy doing the  _ exact same thing _ . 

 

* * *

Okay, so she thinks about her sworn enemy when she fucks herself. Emma can keep that little secret to herself, and it will  _ certainly  _ not affect her work.

 

Until it does. 

 

She can give Rittenhouse innumerable excuses for why she hasn't killed Lucy yet.  _ They needed to bring Nicholas to the future, a sympathetic Wendell Scott helped them escape, she had to prioritize finding a young JFK _ . 

 

Upon closer examination, however, she knows these excuses are, quite frankly, bullshit. But she isn't ready to analyze  _ why  _ she hesitates to kill Lucy, despite her constant rhetoric that would suggest otherwise. 

 

(She has a sneaking suspicion it has to do with the feeling of Lucy's curves pressed against her when she has a knife to her throat, the curl of her lovely hair around her shoulders, the look of determination in her eyes that sends a shiver up her spine.)

* * *

In 1905 Newport, Emma is  _ determined  _ to deal with Lucy once and for all. Not only for Rittenhouse’s sake, but for her own peace of mind, at least. 

 

She has Lucy pinned against the dirty wall of a supply closet in a gleaming Gilded Age mansion, and she can feel the heat of her skin through the layers of muslin and tight corsets.

 

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Lucy seethes, pushing against her. “ _ Do it _ . Kill me.”

 

And, despite her promises otherwise, Emma falters. She shifts nervously on her feet, tries to avoid Lucy's blazing eyes.

 

“Don't tell me you're chickening out?” She laughs sourly, and Emma can't even muster up a sharp retort, too entranced with the curve of Lucy's lips, what it might be like to taste them. 

 

“Are you just going to stare at me, then?” Lucy raises an incredulous brow, and Emma feels a flush rising in her cheeks, slightly embarrassed at being caught. 

 

A slow, slight smile begins to curl around Lucy's mouth, and Emma's blush deepens. “Oh, I see.  _ That's  _ what this is about.”

 

“I have no idea what you're talking about, princess.” Emma snaps, but it doesn't sound convincing, even to her.

 

She feels Lucy begin to relax against her, and the brunette lets out a sharp laugh.

 

“How long have you wanted this, Emma?” Lucy whispers, tilts her head closer, hands resting on Emma's waist, and she blinks, swallows hard. 

 

She's  _ so close _ , all Emma needs to do is lean in and--

 

Gunshots ring out in the background. The muffled  _ bang  _ of an explosion soon follows, and Emma is too distracted by the noise and the closeness of Lucy’s lips to remember to  _ keep her grip on Lucy _ , because the brunette is squirming away from her, taking off down the hall. 

 

Emma groans, head dropping against the wall in defeat. She allows herself one second to push the feeling of Lucy’s body against hers into the back of her mind, before running off towards the sound of the explosion, towards the brunette, half wondering what excuse she’ll have to give Nicholas for not killing Lucy this time. 

 

* * *

Being held captive by British officers on a ship in Lake Ontario is  _ not  _ how Emma imagined her trip back to the War of 1812 going. Being held captive and having to share a bed with  _ Lucy Preston _ ...is somehow even worse. 

 

“It’s cold. There’s no reason we should let each other freeze.” Lucy murmurs next to her, and Emma nearly jumps at the sound of her voice, so close to her ear. And  _ yes _ , rationally speaking, Emma knows that she should curl into Lucy, try to create a cocoon of warmth from their shared body heat, but Emma shuffles away, not trusting herself to do so. 

 

“Suit yourself.” Lucy huffs, turning to her other side, and Emma waits, listens to Lucy’s breathes even out in sleep, and then finally trusts herself to exhale. 

 

It was a special kind of torture, to be this close to Lucy. The brunette hadn’t mentioned what had happened in 1905, and Emma is silently relieved, determined to blot the incident from her memory. But still, it was hard to ignore the fact that Lucy was little  _ inches  _ from her. Even in the moonlight of the cabin, she can make out her soft curves under the thin linen of her chemise, can smell the lavender of Lucy’s shampoo. 

 

Emma allows the gentle rocking of the boat to lull her to sleep, and eventually, doesn’t  _ so  _ much mind when Lucy’s fingers brush against hers. 

 

* * *

Emma does not believe in a higher power, but that night, she  _ prays  _ that she won't have another one of her unfortunate sex dreams starring one Lucy Preston.

 

Of course, she's mistaken. Because, sure enough, she jerks awake violently, images of Lucy bending her over one of the consoles in the Mothership, three fingers buried in her, burning in her head. 

 

“Is everything okay?” Emma blanches, the heat pooling in her stomach replaced by panic, as Lucy stirs awake besides her, voice scratchy with sleep. 

 

“I’m fine.” Emma lies, grateful Lucy can’t see the blush rising in her face, but then Lucy lays a soft hand on her arm and Emma has to stop herself from audibly whimpering. 

 

“A nightmare?” Lucy inquires, thumb moving idly against her forearm, and Emma runs a tired hand down her face, as if she could simply rub away the dream from her memory. 

 

“Something like that.” She admits, trying to smother her sharp, panicked laugh. She can feel Lucy’s eyes on her, and she has no doubt that Lucy can see the flush of her skin, her wide pupils and heavy breathing, and can draw her own conclusion. 

 

“ _ Oh _ .” Emma practically  _ hears  _ the smile in Lucy’s voice. Lucy’s hand stills, hot through the thin fabric of her muslin chemise. “Tell me about this dream, then.  _ Was I in it? _ ” 

 

The surprised sound that is caught in the back of Emma’s throat is  _ almost  _ laughable, and she knows that her mortified blush has deepened tenfold. And, of course, Lucy has her answer. The brunette’s other hand moves to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear, Emma can’t even  _ look  _ at Lucy, brain practically short-circuiting. 

 

“Is that why you haven’t killed me yet?” She asks, and Emma lets out a shaky breath. 

 

“ _ Lucy _ \--” She tries to push her away, and is prepared to offer almost every excuse in the book, and insist that is  _ a complete and utter misunderstanding _ \--

 

But  _ then  _ \--

 

Lucy's crawling over her, straddling her hips, chemise falling delicately off of her shoulders, and Emma's eyes widen, words dying in her throat, much too distracted by everything  _ Lucy _ . 

 

Her two delicate hands move to cup of face, and Emma sucks in a harsh breath. 

 

“Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?” Lucy whispers, and Emma can barely nod before she’s pressing her lips against hers. Emma, to her embarrassment, absolutely  _ freezes _ , but then Lucy’s tongue is pushing into her mouth and the heat that blooms through her allows her to regain the ability to move, her hands moving up to grasp at Lucy’s hips. 

 

Lucy tastes like honey and rum, and Emma wants to kiss her until she’s breathless. When Lucy arches flush against her, she can’t help but moan into Lucy’s mouth, fingers digging into Lucy’s skin. 

 

Emma gasps, exhales shakily when Lucy moves to leave hard kisses down the column of her neck, Lucy’s hands toying with the hem of her chemise. 

 

“Better than a dream?” Lucy murmurs into her neck, and Emma can feel her smile on her skin. She’s about to reply, but then Lucy presses a bite just where her neck meets her shoulder, and Emma loses the ability to speak entirely. 

  
_ Much better than a dream _ .


End file.
